


Hinder

by romanoff



Series: held [4]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - BDSM, Angst, Dom Steve Rogers, Emotional Manipulation, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Past Sexual Abuse, Sub Tony Stark, Sub-Drop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-02-17
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,971
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanoff/pseuds/romanoff
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Later, Tony will blame himself. </p><p>It's routine. Tony attends parties like these every week. Nothing can go wrong.</p><p>(Spoiler alert: it does.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hinder

**Author's Note:**

> THIS HAS MENTIONS OF RAPE FROM THE VERY START if that is a trigger please be careful.
> 
> Honestly, though, this is ten times darker than the other stories in this series. If you see anything else that needs tagging, drop me a message.
> 
> I spent so long trying to think of an idea in the end I just smushed together a lot of the prompts I received into one, which is probably why it's so shit.

Tony can, unfortunately, remember the night with crystal clear clarity.

Picture the scene: a young man (practically a boy; he had still been a boy, had still felt like a boy, damned never mind what his birth certificate said) a sub, high and plastered out of his head at one of the first galas he's ever been to. He's maybe eighteen, nineteen. And he's so fucking desperate to please.

The man that approaches him is friendly enough. He makes small talk about the new Stark industries merger. Tony, for the record, is completely 100% sober at this point, and that's why he never bothered taking it to court. He was sober when he consented, he was sober when he signed the contract, he _was_ thinking straight when he agreed to go home with Kevin Buckner. 

And Buckner was very, very persuasive. "Tell you what," he'd said, thumbing Tony's lower lip "a sweet thing like you, I'm willing to cut you a deal."

He'd said something about an extra ten percent profit or an inside link with his board of directors, it doesn't matter because he never actually pays up. Instead, he whips out one of those contract books, the kind that were all the rage in the nineties before cell phones carried all this with them, and Tony had signed his pre-meditated kink list without even a glance through, safe in the knowledge that he, a young CEO, was doing something good for his company. 

They take a limo back to Buckner's place and Tony drinks the whole way there, glass after glass of champagne and then scotch and then just plain vodka mixed with cheap fruit juice. He can barely walk by the time they reach his apartment, and it takes Buckner and the driver to carry him to the elevator, shit-faced and slutty, spewing crap about interest rates and taxation as if Buckner gives a fuck.

The fun really starts when Tony, already out of his mind, is handed a crisp $50 note and two lines of white gold. He snorts it easily, giddy, and he starts spacing out pretty badly. He knows that Bucker strips him, and he remembers sliding to his knees and giving one of the sloppiest blow jobs of his life. He passes out on the floor not long after Buckner's blown his load into his hair.

So he misses the part where Buckner calls all his buddies. And he's woken when someone jeering throws ice in his face. No, it was a beer, Tony remembers, but it was August, so of course it had ice in it. He was on his knees. His arms were stretched up and tied around a pole. He was still so, so drunk. He remembers the murmur of people talking, of the warm, humid air coming in from the balcony. 

After, after everything, they leave him shivering on the floor. "Please," he tries saying, words slurring together "was it good? Was I good?" Because he needs some justification for what happened, he needs someone to make sure it was okay. The drink and the drugs have driven him so far under he'll be dropping for another four days, but he doesn't know that yet. 

(He had mumbled 'no' so many times, but he didn't have a safeword. No one had given him a safeword. He was so cold. He was shivering.)

He's shaken awake by a man the next morning. He's so, so hungover and he's crashing. He's dropping. The light is too bright and the man's face is too close to his. It scares him. He realises he's wearing a thick collar. There's pain, aching, muscle pain, and the pain of thick, red weals where they had whipped him. He can't stop shaking. 

But this man is gentle, kinda. Tony does not know his name, and he never finds out. Maybe he was part of the party or maybe he just came that morning. Tony likes to imagine it was the latter. He doesn't like to think about that man's hands on his body, through his hair, forcing his fingers into places they have no right being.

He wraps him in his coat, a thin little thing, but Tony's so small it dwarfs him anyway. He remembers that he couldn't sit up straight, he kept sliding down the wall, and he remembers the stench of blood, beer and come smeared all over him. The man asks for an address and Tony, out of his mind, just tries to bury closer. Soft hands push his caked hair back from his head and ask again, and Tony gives an address, any address, but would later find out it was for his apartment. He was still living in New York at the time, early nineties.

He drives Tony there himself and helps him up the elevator. Tony keeps crying and asking him if he did good. The man leads him to the bedroom and tells him to settle. He takes his coat, but wraps Tony in a blanket. Miraculously, he doesn't put Tony on his knees or ask him to suck, or fuck him in his still sloppy hole. He just leaves.

The first day, Tony still doesn't know where he is. He curls up, rocks, still filthy, and waits for someone to help him. No one comes. After two days of silence -- and a missed board meeting -- Obie comes round to see what's wrong. He finds Tony trying to run a bath with just bleach and shampoo, tipping it all into the tub and crying when he runs out. "I'm dirty," he sobs "I just want a bath. I just want a bath."

At this point in time, Tony had only one good friend, and that was Rhodey. Actually, he only had one friend, full-stop. It would be... highly inappropriate for Obie to be the one to sort him out, although he managed what was acceptable, washing Tony's face and putting him to bed. What he did do was call a professional, who told him that Tony was going into sub shock, and as a result Tony got a two week vacation to a relaxation clinic where he was kept down and held down and had to attend daily psychiatry meetings and was constantly told that he was good boy, a good, good boy, until the shakes stopped and he could finally think clearly.

After, he still has to see them at galas, at meetings, in the expensive stores that people of his class visit. He just has to keep his head down and ignore them when they mime fucking each other over a table, shake their fists by their mouths and remind Tony of the countless blow jobs he gave that night. He should count himself lucky no one took pictures. The whole thing was kept on the down low.

So he starts using his body for what he needs. And if they want to treat him like an object, then fine, he'll make it a sharp one. For months after he can't sleep with anyone at all. Sex repulses him, makes him sick to the stomach. The first time he forces himself to sleep with someone is a young girl, a dom, and more importantly she's his age. It's sweet and good and Tony realises that he doesn't like pain. After that, it's another woman, and Tony writes his own contract, subtext being that if Tony gives her a good time she'll give Obie priority to the new stock intel she has coming in. And it's a one week stint, she has Tony crawling most of the time, but she's kind, and Tony does it for himself.

He keeps making contracts for business for awhile, right up until She Who Shall Not Be Named catches him at his own game, takes him under, and milks him for secrets. After that, it's back to square one. The shakes are so bad that Tony hides in his apartment for a month wearing old sweaters and eating dried crackers, disorientated and scared, until Obie finally relents and lets him go back to the clinic. 

He never enters a contract again but he knows how to make people work for him. Sometimes it's good and sometimes it's bad. Mostly, it leaves him with a sense of satisfaction.

Until he met Steve. Then... he didn't need to. He was safe. He was protected. He _is_ protected. Monogamy is strange but not unpleasant. Steve makes it worth it. Sometimes he'll make him breakfast in bed. One time he sent flowers to Tony's office. That was nice. He had probably been inordinately proud of them, but that doesn't matter. The sex is good. The sex is _great._ They're compatible. And Steve always, always, _always_ holds him afterwards. Gives him a bubble bath, which is maybe even more fun than the sex itself. If Tony's had a rough day, Steve will just _know,_ and he'll take Tony out of his head accordingly.

This one time, Steve had come home from a three day raid and he had been broken. Torn up about it. People had died. Tony had slipped so easily into the role of comforter it shocked him. He'd propped Steve up on pillows, stroked his hair, brought him dinner. They'd watched a film, but mostly Tony had listened to Steve talk. And Tony didn't sleep until he was sure Steve was no longer awake. 

Now, Steve's on another week-long mission. It sucks, but Tony's used to it. That's Steve's job. It means he's not home often. He's busy, anyway. Got stuff to do. A party.

(He should have known.)

 

It's not large. The party is mostly for investors of Roxxon, a company of which Tony is markedly _not_ an investor. It's just one of those things; Tony is a part of this social circle, it's just expected that he would be invited. He turns up at eight, stays for a few hours making polite chit chat, and then leaves at a respectable time. He's been doing these for years.

It's not unusual to drink. One scotch, enough to take the edge off the boredom. He doesn't limit himself, necessarily, he just doesn't feel the need to go overboard. And although there's zero risk of him being attacked at a small party like this, he feels better having his wits about him.

So he doesn't remember _how_ he got this tipsy. He's trying to hide it but he keeps giggling at whatever the fat old man in front of him is trying to say. God, that's embarrassing. He needs to stop. He needs to -- 

He pitches forward, burying his head into the man's neck. He fists his hands in his shirt. "Sorry," he slurs, grinning. The man is so warm. He's sooo warm.

The man chuckles. "Old habits die hard, right Stark?"

Tony giggles, although he's not sure what the joke is. "Right." He says.

"You look like you've had a bit too much." Someone else says, and they're hands are warm on Tony's shoulders, tugging him straight. 

"Relax," comes another voice "let the guy have some fun. It's a party."

That's true. This party is really getting underway. Tony spots two guys practically eating each other's faces in the corner and a woman so drunk she's passed out over a table. Maybe he should go. This isn't what he wanted for tonight. 

"Leaving so soon?" Says a man, and he's about Tony's age, tall, greying but in a good way, like, a suave way. 

"Not my scene." He says, as best he can. "Not really my thing."

"Not even for one more drink?" Salt and pepper says, batting his eyelids. "C'mon, Stark, I swear half these people are only here for you anyway."

"This is your party?"

"This is my party. And I'd love for you to stay."

Tony nods, ready to make a polite exit. "You know," he says "I have a dom. I'm not sure he'd be thrilled if I -- "

"You whipped?"

Tony blinks. "No."

"Is that your scene? Your type? Do you like having him tell you what to do?" The man's lips are chasing the crazy straw and grins. "C'mon," he says "lighten up. Indulge me."

"My... scene."

"Sure. How do you take it nowadays, Stark?" He lowers his voice "Do you like pain? Because I have two guys in the next room who -- "

"Please don't proposition me." Tony says. God, that's awkward. He sips more of his drink, feels it burn down his chest. "C'mon, that's -- you're embarrassing yourself, man."

He holds up his hands, concedes defeat. "Well it was worth it." He says "You had to settle down eventually."

"Tell me about it." Tony snorts.

"You'd never consider doing one last blow out? One last massive party before you click the collar?"

Tony stares at him. "What are you suggesting?"

"I'm saying I know you love it, Tony. Can I call you Tony? I was there, you know."

"You were," Tony feels woozy, and he downs his drink "excuse me?"

The man leans in. "You were my first." He whispers. "At the party, what was it, '91? '92? God, you were so beautiful." His hand rests on Tony's shoulders. "I've never stopped thinking about you."

_"You have to fuck it harder, Jules, or it won't spill. Look, look at this, let me take it's mouth -- "_

Tony feels sick. "You're disgusting." He slurs, turning away. "That's disgusting. You know what that was, you -- ugh." Tony covers him mouth to stop the sudden, violent, rise of vomit. "God, you're making me sick. I'm going. Have a nice life you -- Christ, one time I think 'here's a nice dom' fuck, never mind, you're all creeps."

"We're not _all_ creeps." Someone says behind him, resting their head on his shoulder. "Hey, Tony boy."

Tony blinks and spins, shoving the woman away. " _You."_ He spits. "What is this? Is this a set-up?"

Sunset Bain tilts her head, tries to run a hand through Tony's hair. "Sweetie, why would this be a set-up?" She laughs "This is just a Roxxon investors meeting and you're just the leading name in green energy. Why on earth would an oil company want to set you up?"

Tony raises a fist because his intention is absolutely to punch her in the face, except his muscles feel like they're spasming. He clenches his fingers but can't make them all move at the same time. His legs start to shake.

The man's hand is gently stroking over his neck. "Aww, Sun," he breathes "look at that. I think he's going under."

"Not -- " Tony manages as the man grips the hairs at the bottom of his skull "not -- what did you put in my drink?" He gets out in one breath.

"Nothing," Sunset says, and she loosens Tony's tie, one hand splaying across his collar bones "I think you're just a bit drunk."

He feels drunk. He feels sick. He's staring as Sunset Bain and -- and he's about to go under for Sunset Bain like he's twenty-five all over again.

_"The arc reactor. Word is it's going to be powering your new factory on the west coast. Is that true, Tony? Is it?"_

_Tony shudders. "I," he slurs "I'm not supposed to say? I'm not allowed, I -- "_

_She slaps his face so hard his lips busts; blood dribbles down his chin._

"Not drunk," he grits, because he can almost recognise the feeling. It's the same thing she used to send him down all those years ago, to get him so deep he didn't know which way was up and what was down. "What do you want?" He says "What -- help," he whispers, hoarse " _help!"_

"Don't waste your breath." Baine says, dismissive. "Let's get him in the study. Don't worry, baby, we just want a little chat. No need to get so antsy."

The man has one hand on his ass and the other on the back of his neck. He steers him through the doorway and up the oak stairs. Tony tries to push back against him but it's not working; his body isn't responding so well. When they reach the top and the man lets go, all he can do it fall to his knees, drooling in the carpet.

Sunset kicks him in the thigh. "Move." She says. "We haven't got all day."

"Help," Tony tries to say again " _help_."

The man sighs, taking his collar and wrapping it round his fist, pulling him half crawling and half dragged across the carpet. It burns his hipbone where his shirt rides up.

He pushes down the door, pulling Tony into the study. He shivers on the floor, spacing out. _Steve._ Steve isn't even here, Steve is in _Ukraine,_ what good is that? He can, he can fight. He's stronger than these too, he knows he is. He works out every day. But not like this, with whatever they've drugged him with turning his limbs to jelly. 

His cell. If he doesn't come home, people will notice. It's not like him to stay out. No, that's a lie, it absolutely is. He's fucked.

Someone, one of them, pulls off his jacket, and Tony's so cold he just tries to curl up. "Whatever, you're planning, don't." He says, burying his face in the carpet.

"I think you gave him too much," Sunset says "because I could not understand a word of that." Her foot comes to rest between his shoulder blades, the stiletto digging into his spine, and it hurts. "Get him up, I'll make him talk."

The man hoists him up, dumping him a chair, a normal chair, like, one of those fancy ones you might get in an office. And Tony starts to slide down it so he props him up, takes out some masking tape, and tapes his wrists to the armrests. 

Tony's head spins and he lets it hang back, unable to pick it up. He's scared, yes, but also wary. He still has his wits about him, mostly. This doesn't have to end awfully. If they wanted to kill him, they would have already. 

"Now," Sunset says, hitching up her dress and straddling his lap. "Tony. I think we need to have a chat."

"Fuck you." Tony slurs, except it comes out like 'uck' oo''. Sunset laughs, her dark hair tumbling over one shoulder.

"Tony," she murmurs, taking his chin in her hand. She kisses him until his lips are swollen, red, and his chin is glistening with his own saliva. "Tony, Tony, Tony."

"Ask him something, would you?" The man says, and Tony thinks he's antsy, nervous. That's good. That means he has some standing, here.

"Relax, Jules," Sunset says, and yeah, Tony remembers now. _Jules._ He'd been there, that night, although Tony hadn't got a great look at his face. He'd only been a kid at the time. Well, he'd been the same age as Tony. Maybe even younger. "Tony," Sunset purrs "you and I... we go back a long way, sweetie."

Tony's eyes blur as he focuses on a spot behind Bain's head. Just pretend she doesn't exist. Don't answer any questions. She shifts in his lap, and he knows what she's trying to do. It won't work. Whatever they gave him has conked him out. He can barely open his eyes, let alone work _that_ particular part of his anatomy. 

"Your new man. The Captain. Where is he right now, Tony?"

Tony blinks slowly, sluggishly. His mouth remain slack. Sunset tsks and she lifts up his head, holds it in place with a hand fisted in his hair. "I know you can talk, sweetie, don't lie. I've used this on you before, remember?"

She shakes his head and Tony starts. "Don't know." He lies, sullenly. He can feel Jules at his back and it's making him uncomfortable. Fuck, he needs to get out. If he screams, now, as loudly as he can, will anyone help?

Sunset sighs. "Fine," she says "okay." She begins to rub her hand insistently through Tony's hair. "Does that feel nice, honey? I bet it feels real good, my hand in your hair."

Tony knows what she's trying to do, and usually it wouldn't work. It wouldn't, it shouldn't, because you can really only send a sub under if they _want_ to go under. Unless of course you've drugged them with something to lower inhibitions. In that case, it might be very easy.

"Oh, good boy." She says warmly as Tony's pupils expand. "Look at this, Jules. He's going under so beautifully for us."

"Yeah, it's a real Christmas miracle." He says sourly. "Could you hurry this up?"

Tony's mouth falls open, slack, his head moving like a stream of molasses. He wants to go home, now. That's all he wants, and he says it, plainly. Sunset makes a sympathetic face, cupping his cheek. "You can, sweetie. Just a few questions for you to answer first and then you can go home, we promise."

"Steve won't," he slurs "Steve won't be happy. He'll be so mad."

"Will he?" Sunset says, apparently enraptured by his words "Mad at me? Or you?"

"You." Tony says, trying to tugs his arms free from the tape. "He'll, he'll punch your faces in."

"Really? He'll punch my face? Oh no," Sunset says in a voice thats dripping with honey "God. That's awful. Say, Tony, where is Steve right now?"

"Ukraine." Tony says, the word just slipping free from his mouth. "He's investigating an oil company who oh, ohh, ohh no, no, I'm not sayin', you can't, you can't make me."

"An oil company." Sunset says thoughtfully. "And do you know _which_ oil company?"

Tony shakes his head from side to side, squashes his lips together. No, no, no he does not, he doesn't, he doesn't, it's secret, he's not _allowed --_

There's a sigh and then someone is pressing a glass full of amber liquid to his lips. "Drink." Jules orders, and Tony shakes his head, pulls away. "Mmmph." He says in disgust, nose crinkling.

"Drink it, Tony." Sunset says, patiently. "Go on."

Tony shakes his head and then Jules hands are clamping around it like a vice. They pull back his head until the chair is bent backwards, balancing on it's hind legs. Sunset twists her fingers over his nose, cutting off his air, waiting for him to open his mouth.

He does, eventually, and she holds it open, tipping the drink down his throat and covering until he swallows. Jules throws him back, the chair off-balancing for a moment, and then slamming back to the ground. Tony feels sick, the alcohol burning a hole in his chest, whatever drug they added making him woozy, driving him even lower than he was before.

"Now," Sunset says, swinging round and crouching in front of him. "Tony, sweetie, are you a good boy?" She rubs Tony thighs and he shivers. He wishes that he could feel her on bare skin, he wishes she would -- _no,_ no, he doesn't, _stop,_ that's crazy and -- and -- he's really, really under.

"Tony," she says again "are you a good boy? Do you love answering my questions?"

Tony nods, colours spinning around him. Yeah he's a good boy, Steve always said he's a good boy so -- no, no focus, this is, this is the she-devil, and Tony she's doing it again, history is repeating itself, _buck up --_

"Well then. Why don't you tell me what oil company your beau is investigating. Go on."

Tony whines behind his teeth and shakes his head. "Won't." He manages "Won't tell you."

Sunset's gaze hardens. "Are you gonna be a bad boy, Tony? A bad sub? Do you know what happens to bad subs? Do you remember?"

Tony makes a noise of fear because he remembers, he remembers, but he doesn't want that, not that. He tries to back away but he's stuck in that chair with nowhere to go. "Please." He mumbles "No."

"If you're a good boy, it doesn't matter." Sunset says. "But if you're a bad boy..." She warns.

"I'm good." Tony slurs "I know I'm good."

"Answer the question."

Tony knows he's good, he knows that, but he needs to prove it. Steve always said he was good. Steve has _never_ called him bad. But he needs to show her that he's not stupid, that he's not a bad sub, doesn't he. Doesn't he? He needs to tell her the answer, because that'll make him a good sub to her, but it'll make him a bad sub to Steve. He doesn't know what to do. He doesn't know what to do.

(He's older than he was last time, he's stronger. He can think through this, if he really tries.)

Tony hesitates and Sunset slaps his face. "Bad boy." She says "Idiot." She stands abruptly, pours herself another drink, and Tony shakes in the seat.

"Wait," he says "I can do it better."

"Can you?" She says, bored. "Tony I think it's time for punishment."

"I can do better!" Tony says, frantically. "I know I can." He's drunk and he's under, it's a lethal combination. He's not in control himself at all and it's an awful feeling. 

"Tell me now, Stark. Now. Tell me, or I swear to God -- "

"Roxxon." Tony blurts "He was investigating Roxxon. There was unregistered activity so we sent him out. I'm sorry."

"Aww, that's okay," Sunset says, sweet as sugar. "Good boy, Tony, wasn't that easy? Such a good boy. Jules, send out the message, get our best people out there _tonight."_

"Don't hurt him." Tony mumbles "Please."

"We won't touch your Captain, not at all. You're such a good boy."

"Can I have him now?" Jules whines. "C'mon, we have what we need."

"Not yet," Sunset says "we don't want Tony here telling anyone what's happened, right?"

"Jesus, Bain, could you speed this up?"

Sunset smiles, gently tugging apart the buttons of Tony's shirt. "I need scissors." She says, and Jules passes her a knife. "It'll do." He says, and then she's ripping his shirt off his back.

It's freezing. Is no one else freezing? Tony is shivering, shuddering, trying to bend over to conserve warmth. "Tony," Bain says, tapping his cheek "Tony. Now, I know we've been through this before, haven't we, but it's important for you to remember that you're worthless, okay? You are a pathetic sub. Awful."

Tony feels his face crease. He doesn't understand. He doesn't underst -- he had given her an answer, why does that make him bad? Why does it -- 

"You're such a bad, bad boy, Tony. You don't deserve Steve at all, do you. Do you? Tell me what you think."

"I -- " Tony swallows "I don' deserve, I don't -- "

"And I think you forgot that, didn't you? Got all cocky." Sunset smirks. "Well, Tony, what do you think Steve will do when he finds out you told us? That you jeopardised his mission? That you were weak?"

Tony's not even tracking anymore. He's blinking spasmodically, slowly. Bent over, with drool dripping from his mouth onto his lap.

"I said," Bain grits, squeezing his jaw "what will Steve say when he finds out you're worthless?"

"Mm' n'at -- " Tony tries to move his lips "w-worthhless."

This time the slap sends his head whipping round. He groans, slumping.

"You are a bad boy," Sunset hisses "a bad, bad boy. You have always been a bad sub, Tony, always. A slut. You let Jules here fuck you, you let all those men at my house fuck you. You're disgusting. Such a disgusting little slut."

Tony's face finally crumples. "Don' tell Steve," he says, voice breaking "don' tell 'im tha'"

"What?" Sunset says innocently "That you're a worthless whore? Or that you sold him out?"

"Both." Tony sobs. "Both. Please, don', don' tell 'im. I," it's getting harder and harder to get his lips to make shapes "I can't loooo -- " spit dribbles down his chin "I can't loo -- lose, can't -- "

"You can't lose Steve, can you?" She says sympathetically. "You don't deserve him at all but you don't want to lose him. That's okay. It's understandable. So you know what that means, ight?"

Tony shakes his head, or tries too. He's going to throw up, but he's already so disgusting, he doesn't want to make it worse.

"You can't tell him anything that happened here, okay? Not a single word. Because if you tell him, do you know what will happen?"

"Ugh," Jules says "he's getting drool all over my carpet."

"Tony." Sunset says abruptly again. "Do you know what will happen?"

Tony can't even answer. He just hangs there, limply, occasionally blinking, shivering uncontrollably. "I'll be," he manages, slow "b-b-bbaaad b-boy."

"Yeah," Sunset says, as if talking to an infant. "That's true. And you know what happens if you're bad."

"Pleash' n-nnnoo."

"But do you know what else will happen? Steve will hate you. He'll realise how worthless and stupid you really are. He might even hurt you. Bad subs deserve punishment. He won't listen to your safeword, even, and you know how bad that is, right? When we don't listen to your safeword?"

Tony is crying but he can't work up the traction to really sob. He hangs there, limp, a mess, the words half reaching him. The message is clear enough, though: don't tell Steve.

"Okay," Sunset says quietly "okay, I think we're done."

"Do I get a turn?"

"No. Did you call HQ?"

"They're flying out now. You said I would get a turn!"

"I lied. Un-strap him. Wait, no -- one more shot. Let's keep him down for days."

The tips the alcohol past Tony's lips and he doesn't protest. They take off his socks and shoes and his belt. He can't move at all. He feels them manipulate him like a puppet. Jules winces, lifting him into a firemans carry. "Right," he pants "what do we do now?"

"Find an alley near his tower. Let him piece together what he wants."

 

Tony is freezing.

Ultimately, that's what wakes him up. He's absolutely frozen to death. It's raining and he's curled somewhere cold, and hard. He's lying in something wet. He hears cars, and traffic. He's so cold.

Someone is shaking him. "Sir?" They say "Hello? Sir are you alright? Do you have anything to cover you? Hello?"

Tony looks up, searching for the voice, because he thinks he might recognise it. "Shit," it says "shit, Tony?"

Tony blinks at the man blocking out the light. He can't think of words to say, but he recognises him. It's Clint. He's so cold. He drags himself forward and slumps into a dirty puddle, freezing fingers reaching out for some warmth.

"Shit," Clint blurts "here, Tony, take my coat. Quickly. Where's your shirt? Your shoes? What -- Jesus, the bastards. It was the party, wasn't it? I'm going to kill them. I'm going to fucking kill them."

Clint's voice scares him. He moves Tony so he's sitting, out of the puddle, and wraps him in his jacket. It's not big; they're about the same size. It zips easily, though, and it's warm, thick, a winter jacket.

Clint must be cold now, but there's not way he's as cold as Tony. He lifts his arms, tries to bury himself against the warmth, and Clint hops from one foot to the other. "Hold on," he says "I'm sorry, I can't carry you like this, just -- wait, pull up the hood. The hood, Tony, the hood. For your hair, so it doesn't -- that's it, okay. Let me call Nat, hold on."

Tony rolls back onto his side, the puddle beneath him soaking through the coat. Now it's even colder. It's raining. His fingers fumble as he tries to tighten the hood. He pushes himself between the large trash can and the wall, covers his face. Now his feet are really cold, because they're in the puddle.

"Just, hold on, Nat, wait -- Tony, Tony don't do that. It's dirty there, you -- God, the coat's wet, isn't it? Okay, okay. Nat, just, hurry. As fast as you can."

Clint pockets his phone and crouches in front of Tony, puts a hand on his knee. "Hey." he says, the rain dampening his face, his hair. "Can you talk at all?"

Tony shakes his head rapidly. The rain splashes in the puddles and Clint strips himself of his sweater, leaving him only in a t-shirt, and wraps it round Tony's feet. "It's okay." He says, squeezing his knee. "You're okay, Tones. We're gonna get you home."

The SUV pulls up only a few minutes later, Natasha hopping out, still wearing her pyjamas and a parka jacket. "Quickly," she hisses "get him inside. Has anyone else seen?"

"Don't think so." Clint huffs, lifting Tony off the ground. "I just stopped because -- you know. Good guy. Uh, don't ask him anything, he can't answer."

"I bet he can't." Natasha says brusquely, slamming the door behind them. The car is warm, it's _so_ warm. Clint lets Tony stretch out in the back seat, the leather heated from beneath, and it's so good. He traces the raindrops on the window with trembling fingers. "Give me a recap, was he alone? Did you see anyone leave the scene? How long do you think he was there for?"

"Nat, I don't know."

She grunts in frustration. "He was at a party, last night."

"Yeah." Clint says, slowly.

"Steve's going to have blood on his hands when he's finished with them."

Steve. Steve. Steve -- oh, no. No, no, no no Steve can't -- 

Steve can't know. He can't -- 

"Tony, Tony," Clint says "hey what's wrong, why are you -- Nat I think -- don't talk about blood, I think it's freaked him out."

"You can't tell Steve," Tony blurts "you can't tell him." Or at least, that's what he's trying to say. It comes out as a slurry of words and broken syllables, more like "ooanellseeve" then actual human speech.

"Steve? You, do you want Steve?"

Tony shakes his head rapidly, pressing himself against the car door. He shakes it again, just to make sure the message has gotten through.

"Hurry up," Clint grits "something's wrong. We need a blood test, and -- " he lowers his voice, as if Tony won't hear "sexual assault. We should check for... you know."

"DNA." Natasha follows up, looking in the rearview mirror. "I'll need a list of everyone at the party last night."

Tony wants to crawl into a hole and die. Clint carries him out the SUV to his bedroom, efficiently stripping him of his wet things and towelling him dry. He bundles him into a soft clean pair of sweats and a sweater, putting extra thick socks on his feet and rubbing circulation back into his limbs.

"We need a urine sample." He says, apologetically. "The test only takes a minute, but... do you need help?"

Tony gets the message, achingly making his way to the bathroom. After, he washes his hands and hands Clint the little bottle, still mute, still unsure of what to do. 

"Thanks," Clint says, as if pee is a really great gift. Maybe he's trying to be nice. Tony stands there, not knowing what comes next. He sinks to his knees and curls up on the floor. Clint comes back just as he's falling asleep. "No, Tony," he says tiredly. Tony tries to apologise. He didn't know he wasn't supposed to.

Clint isn't good at taking care of people. It's not his fault, he's just not. He's a switch, which means he doesn't really get what it's like to be a sub and he hasn't really got the drive of a dom. It doesn't bother him because he knows Clint's trying, but --

He's really cold.

Natasha comes to sit on the bed and she's holding this little strip of paper. The tip is bright blue. "Tony," she says quietly "you were drugged last night."

He nods, because duh.

"Okay," Natasha says "that's okay, but Tony, we need to know. Did someone... did they touch you? Or hurt you? Did they -- "

Tony shakes his head again, because he's not sure, but no is the better answer. Clint and Natasha share a look. "Okay," she says again. "Okay. But they must have wanted something, Tony. They used tenzeprohypnol. I know you know what that does. I know -- "

"I -- " Tony manages "sick."

"You -- what?" Natasha says, brow furrowing. 

"I -- I'm gonna -- _sick."_ He claps a hand over his mouth explain what he's saying and then there's a hastily retrieved garbage pail being shoved under his nose. He buries his head in it; it's clean, but the bag smells like plastic.

Clint makes a disgusted noise. It panics Tony. He doesn't want to be disgusting. He tries to stop the sick but it keeps coming. He's hungover. He's shaking, his belly muscles trembling. He's sorry. He's so sorry.

"Here," Natasha says softly, carding her hand through Tony's hair. "Water. Drink."

It helps to wash the taste of scotch and the bitterness of the drug from his mouth. He drinks it all. Natasha smiles. "Good boy." She says quietly, as if it's a secret.

Oh. Oh, that's good. Just those two words are enough to make Tony relax, a little. He's good. Or is he? Sunset said --

Sunset said a lot. He doesn't remember it well. He sold out Steve, he thinks. He needs to tell them. He needs to tell them that they're after Steve.

"What is this?" Clint asks. "Is it the drug?"

"I don't know." Natasha says, laying the cool back of her hand against his fevered skin. "I think he can talk, he just won't. It lowers inhibitions, you know, like a truth serum. It's sometimes used a street drug to send subs under fast."

"Bastards."

"Yeah," Natasha sighs "problem is, it's takes them down too quick. Usually it's with rape, so there's no aftercare. It triggers sub shock."

"I've never -- "

"No. You're a switch, it's different for you. But it's basically a very long, very drawn out sub-drop in response to trauma. It's heightened by the drug, understand? I don't think we can deal with this, I think Tony needs a doctor."

"What's that gonna do?"

Natasha rubs her brow. "I don't know," she mutters "maybe there are drugs? When does Steve get in?"

"Not till tonight."

Natasha breathes out from behind her teeth. Tony's sorry. He's sorry for being such a burden. He didn't mean to.

"Oh, oh no, Tony, we're not angry at you." Clint says, hand brushing his shoulder awkwardly. "It's, it's alright. Uh," he makes a face at Natasha "do you, do you want to sleep? We can -- no? Okay. Uh."

"Tony," Natasha says, voice sweet "honey, do you want me to help you sleep? I can do that, if you like."

_Honey?_ When has Natasha ever called him honey. He must look real bad. He must be real bad. He's so bad, such a bad boy. He doesn't know what to do.

He curls up, shivering. "Stupid," he mutters "M' stupid, so stupid." Natasha hand rests in his hair and Jarvis dims the lights. 

"It's happened before." Natasha murmurs to Clint. "Poor guy."

"We should fucking kill them."

"Shh," she says sharply "you'll scare him."

No. Tony's just scared for when Steve comes home. He doesn't --

God, he needs to get his head straight.

 

Natasha is brief with the details on the phone. She doesn't explain much, although Steve threatens quite harshly if she doesn't. She just says that Tony's gone into shock and he needs to get home asap.

And he is _furious._ He is, he is seeing red harder than he has seen it in awhile. He's torn between going home and holding Tony tight and going straight to Roxxon -- he knows, of course he fucking knows -- and smashing in the teeth of every single investor, every single person who was complicit in Tony's --

Interrogation. Let's call it an interrogation.

"Be careful," Natasha murmurs as they stand outside his door "he's not -- I don't know. He should recognise you, but he's shaky. No sudden movements. No sharp noises. Don't shout. No matter how angry you are do not shout because he will think you are shouting at him, understand?"

"I get it, Natasha." Steve grits. "Don't tell me how to treat my sub."

Natasha thinks he's stupid, as if he's never seen subs go into shock before. He was a _soldier._ He saw some subs shock so hard they never recovered, God bless them. He's handled enough of them in his time to know what to expect. He knows Tony well enough to slowly open the door.

Which is a good thing, too, because his first step triggers a trip wire which dumps a garbage can of heavy objects onto his head. Or kinda heavy. A remote control, some shampoo bottles. Batteries, books. Some elastic bands. Apparently Tony's thrown them all in with the hope of maybe giving an attacker a concussion.

Steve figures maybe he's hiding. He's known subs to do that. Hell, he's known anyone to do that when they're scared. He one found a young French girl hiding in a duffel bag in an attempt to block out the sound of a raid. "Tony?" He says, voice low. "Sweetie? It's Steve. I'm just gonna -- carefully -- open the cupboard door, okay? Easy, Tony, easy."

He gently opens it, only to find it empty except for the usual clothes. Sighing, he quickly steps inside, surrounded by Tony's suits, his shoes, and checks he's not camouflaged. 

The door slams shut behind him. He sighs. "Tony," he says "I know you're out there. You can't lock me in here, you know." 

He hears the spring of the bed, some thumping. He hopes Tony hasn't set another trap. Carefully, he opens the door. 

The room looks empty again, but there's a new blanket pooled on the floor by the bed. Sighing, Steve gets down on his knees, peers under the frame. "Tony?" He asks. "Hey. I, uh, I like your trap. It was good. Must be difficult, on such short notice."

Tony blinks at him from under the bed. He reaches out his fingers.

"Aww, Tony," he says softly "you don't need to -- oh, okay. You want the blanket? No, here. Sorry I'm sitting on it, aren't I. You know, this would be easier if we were on the bed."

Tony swallows. "You came." He says, voice hoarse.

At least he's talking. He can talk. That's a relief. Steve smiles, as non-threatening as his can make himself. "Sure I did, Tones."

"Are you mad?" He whispers. Steve can see where his pupils are blown, his skin is damp with sweat. He wonders if maybe he's taking a fever. He must have spent hours in the rain, the bastards. The left him there on purpose. They tried to be cruel.

"Actually, I have -- I have something to say, about that. But the first thing you need to know is that I am the opposite of mad."

Tony blinks at him

"Sorry. What I mean is that I am very happy with you Tony. I think, I think you're such a good boy, you know? Can you climb out? Is that okay? Or -- "

"Sorry," Tony croaks "this is stupid. I mean, I'm stupid, not you. Just -- I can come out. Sorry. Sorry."

"You take your time, Tony."

"Could you," Tony's eyes flick up, and then down again. "Uh. Back, a bit, just so -- "

"Oh!" Steve says, scrambling back "I'm moving. Don't worry. You relax, now, no pressure."

Tony begins to squirm out from the little hole he's made himself. He kneels, and reaches back under the bed. Takes out a cell and some cereal bars. A switch blade. Two pillows. Another blanket.

"You were cosy, huh?" Steve says, weakly. "C'mere." He says, tugging Tony towards him. "Hey," he whispers against his hair "hey. You're amazing, did you know that? You are. I know what you did. That was so clever, Tony. You're so clever."

"I told them." Tony blurts. "I told -- what did Natasha say? I'm sorry. I'm, I'm bad, I'm bad. I'm so bad, I'm so bad, I'm -- " Tony starts to shake "I lost the garbage can, I don't -- "

"What?" Steve says "Why would -- oh, okay. Shh, it's okay, you bring it all up, Tony. Go on. Let me get some towels, hold on."

Steve makes to stand and Tony's hand catches in his shirt. He gently lowers himself back to the floor, presses his hand to Tony's stomach, gently rubs the quivering muscles. "Let's get you into bed." He says quietly, sliding his arm around Tony's waist, carefully avoiding the sick. "C'mon."

"The mission." Tony mumbles. "Did it go good?"

"It went great." Steve says warmly. "But let's not talk about me. Tony, how much do you remember?"

Tony looks down. Shrugs, morose. "Little bits."

"And you know the people that did it?"

Tony nods, silently.

"Could you -- could you tell me, the people that did it?"

Tony shakes his head.

"Why not?"

Tony frowns. He looks up, about to talk, and then down again. 

"Natasha says that something like this has happened before," Steve says carefully "you told me about it, once. You said you don't like to enter contracts because a woman once took you down, right? And she got secrets from you. That was Sunset Bain, wasn't it Tony?

Tony buries his head in his hands. "It happened again." He whispers. "She did it again. Please don't -- I'm awful. I'm so weak, I'm so weak. Please pretend it didn't happen. If we just forget it happened, I swear. She, she said so many things and, and I was confused. She made me tell her where you are and I just, I said it, I broke in a minute, I couldn't even last." Tony sucks in a deep, trembling breath "She said you'd be mad. She'd said you'd be so mad, and you wouldn't even listen to my safeword. You wouldn't even -- please. Please you have to listen. You'll listen, right? I swear I'll be so good for the rest of my life. She -- " Tony tucks his head against his knees, shaking.

"I know what you did," Steve says, running his hands through the soft hairs on the back of Tony's neck. "Telling them I was investigating Roxxon? That was genius. We now have six parachuters in custody who are all carrying orders from the CEO. We haven't been able to catch them for months, Tony, and now we have the evidence we need to take them down. Treason, fraud, you name it, we've got it. And sweetie you did all that while drugged and under. That's amazing, honey, it's so, so clever. You don't understand. You really don't understand how genius it is."

Tony's breath is rattling. "I knew she was lying." He mumbles, dragging his sweater sleeve of his tear-stroked face. "I knew. She doesn't know you. I knew you would never -- I knew."

"Do you want some water?"

Tony nods. "Please."

Steve watches Tony drink and then gently takes the cup away. He smoothes his hair back from his head, damp with sweat. "Shall we have a bath?"

Tony looks like he's debating. "Could we," he murmurs "could we do, like, just a shower. I," Tony swallows "I'm tired. Not too long, I don't -- "

"Hey, we don't have to." Steve says. "I think you'd sleep easier if you felt clean, right? Plus you still smell a bit like alleyway." He jokes.

Tony ducks his head. "I'm sorry." He mutters. "I can, I'll wash up. I'm sorry."

"Oh hey," Steve says "no, no that -- that was a joke. It wasn't -- " Steve pauses "never mind. How about we just lie here. It's okay. I want you to tell me what happened. If, if that's okay with you."

"They put a drug in my drink," Tony says quietly "tenzeprohypnol. Lowers inhibitions. She used it last time."

"Sunset Bain?"

"They put me in a chair -- "

"Who was the second person?" Steve asks, abruptly.

Tony pauses. "He first name is Jules."

"He's an investor?"

"Yeah."

"Do you... know him?"

Tony is silent for a long time. Long enough that Steve has to prompt him. "Tony?"

"He raped me when I was eighteen."

Steve's mouth runs dry. "What?"

"He wasn't the only one. It was a party. I was stupid. I was stupid tonight, too. I'm -- " Tony's voice wavers, slightly "I'm a bad boy."

Steve grasps Tony's arm. "You never said." He says, urgently "You never mentioned -- "

"I did." Tony mumbles "I said that I've had bad experiences."

"I thought you meant Bain! Not -- you never said -- "

"I'm sorry." Tony trembles. "Fuck, please don't be mad. Please don't be -- red." Tony blurts "That's my safeword."

"I know it is." Steve says "Tony, you never said -- "

"Red." Tony blurts again. "If you punish me you have to listen. Doms that fail to heed safewords upon their third utterance are liable to prison sentences starting at six months considering the severity of the offence." Tony parrots.

"I'm not angry with you." Steve says, slowing down. "Not with you. But you never mentioned -- how many, Tony. How many of them _touched_ you? How many people do I need to kill?"

"It was my fault." Tony says "All me. Me, me. I shouldn't have been drunk. I shouldn't have drunk then and I shouldn't have drunk now. I'm stupid, I'm so stupid. I'm worthless. I'm so -- "

"Stop saying that."

"She told me I'm a disgusting slut and it's true. She said you wouldn't want to be with me if," Tony swallows "if you knew the truth. Well now you do. I'm pathetic and -- "

"Enough." Steve growls. "Enough. Don't you dare ever say a single word like that again or I swear to God -- "

He did it. He did the exact thing Natasha warned him to do. He took his anger out on Tony. He watches him scramble back off the bed, roll onto the floor. He starts to gather up his little collection, his blankets, his pillows, his cereal bars, his knife. "I'm sorry," he babbles "I'm sorry." He laughs, high and thready "Why do I bother?" He says "I'm sorry. I -- I'll leave. I'll leave, don't shout. Don't shout, I'm going. I -- " he can't fit both the pillows into the blanket so he just scoops everything up. "I can take the bathroom." He says. "I can sleep there. You, you take the bed, Sir. Sir."

"Tony," Steve says tiredly "honey you're in shock. I'm the one who should be sorry. Come here."

Tony freezes. "I don't," he swallows "please don't shout." He whispers, voice hoarse.

Steve holds out his hand. "I want you to tell me what happened." He says. "Not with Jules, forget Jules. Just last night."

Tony drops one of his pillow trying to climb onto the bed. Steve helps him pick it up. "They put me in a chair." Tony says, carrying on from where he left off. "And they tied me to it."

"Fucking scum." Steve mutters under his breath.

"They, uh. Bain asked me questions. She slapped me a few times. I -- " Tony's voice trembles "I answered. I answered her questions because I'm stupid, and -- " Tony swallows. "Sorry." He says compulsively. "Sorry. I didn't mean to say that."

"Did they hurt you?"

"They made me drink. They drug made me sick. Bain called me bad, bad things. I -- I don't remember so much after that. I woke up in the alley."

"And you've been in sub shock before?"

Tony nods. "After Jules, that first party. After Bain. And now."

"Could you tell me how long it usually lasts?"

Tony shakes his head. "It was, it was two weeks the first time, but it was harder. It was a month after that. I, I was functional, kinda. I just kept -- sorry." 

Steve holds open his arms and Tony falls into them. He presses his head against Steve collar bone, snuggles closer. Steve peppers his hair with kisses.

"I won't touch Bain." He says, thoughtfully. "I'll leave her be. I'll let her think she's won, yeah?"

Tony gives a sigh of relief. "Thank you."

"And when you're better, you can fly over there and incinerate her yourself. We have Roxxon under our thumb, now, and we have it on good authority that she's been working for some shady people."

Tony looks up at him. Maybe he's going to protest, or say something else. But he then he just shrugs. "Yes Sir." He slurs.

"Tony."

"What."

"You know it wasn't your fault."

Tony doesn't reply. Steve realises, abruptly, that he's fallen asleep.

 

He cries out, in the night. Steve dampens his brow with a cool cloth and wipes away the sweat. In the morning, Tony can't remember that Steve was even there to begin with. They have to start all over again.

He spills orange juice and it makes him cry. He hears a door banging and he hides in the closet. He keeps telling Steve he's stupid. That he's worthless. Every second that goes by that he's not at 100% he blames himself.

Steve helps him build traps for their bedroom for Tony's peace of mind. He constructs a den on the floor for Tony to sleep in, easily defendable, as shares it with him at night no matter how tight it gets.

He thinks a lot about Jules and the men at the first party. About Sunset Bain. About all those people who use Tony and put him in harm's way.

Tony is in shock for about a week and pulls out of it pretty sharp. It leaves him tired, and achy. Without constant fear, he's a bit brusque.

But at night, he presses his head to Steve's collar bone, a perfect fit. Sometimes he sobs. Other times, he's silent.

He's always held.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This story gave me so much grief. I have two other sizeable drafts sitting on my hard drive. Seriously. I just completely rushed and fucked up the end because if I don't post it now I know I never will. I reached a point where I literally hate everything I write. I think this might be awful but I'm so tired I can't even tell. Please, please, please any feedback you have is loved. Also my cat died last night, which fucking sucks.
> 
> IF YOU HAVE ANY IDEAS FOR WHAT YOU WOULD LIKE TO SEE NEXT DROP A COMMENT OR AN ASK. I'M STUMPED FOR IDEAS WITH THIS VERSE I might just call it a day. Literally anything would be great.
> 
> So yeah. Any feedback at all just because I feel like this one didn't work at all. Idk. Maybe it's a subliminal representation of my mood.
> 
> If you have any questions or prompts find me on MY NEW writing blog [romanoff](http://writingromanoff.tumblr.com/)


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